Fire in the Woods / Illustrated

by James De Mille

He had been seated a little in the background, in a lazy, reclining posture, when his attention was aroused by the conduct of the Indian. He started up and sat erect for a time. Then, as the Indian grew worse, he became more excited. He rose up on his knees, and remained in that position—watchful and eager. At length, as the Indian grew more furious, the excitement of Solomon increased to a proportionate degree. He rose gradually to his feet, and stood there, eager, attentive, vigilant; every nerve on the stretch; his body advanced, his arms bent, his fists clinched, his brows contracted, his lips compressed, his eyes kindling with a dull glow; and as the flames illumined his dusky face and figure, they revealed a sight which was quite as impressive as that other spectacle upon which the eyes of the boys were fastened.

The old man was transformed. He was no longer the shambling, free and easy, indolent, gabbling, ridiculous, affectionate, rheumatic, pottering, and apparently feeble old Solomon, whom the boys had known and loved. He was changed. He was another being. As the feeble woman is roused to frenzy, and becomes transformed at the approach of danger to her child, so Solomon, at the suspicion of possible danger to his boys, his “chickens,” his “chil’en,” whom he loved with all the strength and devotion of his faithful and affectionate old heart, dropped his old self altogether. He became changed into the fierce, watchful, vigilant champion and defender of those whom he loved. Perhaps there was also some of the savagery of his African blood, and the natural ferocity of his race, which, long slumbering, had burst forth at that moment, at the impulse of his brother savage. But as it is difficult to imagine any taint of savagery, however faint, in one like Solomon, his present attitude may best be accounted for on the ground of his living watchfulness over the boys.

At any rate, there he stood, firm as a rock, and rigid as steel,—like a watch-dog awaiting the onset of the wolf. His “rheumatiz” was forgot in the excitement of that tremendous moment, just as the soldier, in the ardor of battle, is unconscious of dangerous wounds.

At length a crisis approached.

The Indian had gone on as before, growing more and more furious every moment. His eyes rolled fearfully. He had drunk most of the contents of the bottle, and his brain was on fire. His voice grew hoarser and hoarser, his gestures more violent, and his manner more threatening; his utterances were still of that sing-song character already mentioned, but they had now become almost unearthly in their intonations. What mad thoughts there might be in his mind at that time could not be known; nor could they imagine the exciting visions that were wrought in his distracted brain. Whatever they were, they at length passed away; and his eyes, that had been rolling at vacancy, now steadied themselves, and suddenly fastened themselves upon the boys with a look of concentrated hate and fury that was terrible.

So terrible was that look, that the boys all shrank back in horror. Then they started up to their feet, and stood close together, in silence, each nerving his young heart for the coming struggle, which now seemed imminent. As they thus stood, they were on a line with Solomon; but their attention was so occupied with the Indian that they neither thought of him nor saw him.

“Let’s stick together,” said Bart at length in hurried tones—“it’s our only chance.”

“Stick it is,” said Pat, who had recovered his coolness, “through thick and thin.”

Phil said nothing, but stood his ground with the others, and waited.

The movements of the boys had excited the Indian still more. A furious cry escaped him. He looked at them for a moment, and then moved to the right, and flung his bottle into the fire. The spirits poured out, and the blaze threw a bluish, ghastly glare over the scene. Then the madman gave a terrible yell, and rushed towards the boys.